


Walk My Road

by KindListener



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Murder, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 19:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindListener/pseuds/KindListener
Summary: I remember, though coldly separate from the event. He whispers against my ear, his fingers gracing my trench coat before he drops it to the floor. He breathes and I can smell the smoke on his tongue, the scent that brings me back to that fateful night where I first saw him.





	1. It All Started...

The year is 1955, 7th of December, 11:08 PM. Heather Dauphin is rushed to through the halls of a bustling hospital. Her stomach is full to bursting, her unborn children still clutching at their umbilical chords. With her hand in that of her husband, Harrison, she screams and pushes and cries and sweats for two hours as her sons, painstakingly, crawl their way out. One they slap, it screams, they cut the chord and put it to one side. The second they slap, silence. Again, nothing. Again, dead silence. The twin is pronounced dead, at 1:36 AM. The new parents sob over their loss but, at least, they have one. One, beautiful, screaming baby boy. How innocent he looks, how his fingers barely curl.

1974, April 7th. Heather and Harrison despise their 19-year-old son and his endless habits. Drinking, smoking, piercings, tattoos, lusting. It has been nineteen years of Hell. According to his mother’s gossip, she had birthed Satan-incarnate. A boy who gave into every desire. Every sin was acted upon and he never stopped. The years have not been kind to her or her demeanour. The same goes for her husband, who spends most of his weeks on business trips, down to Florida, instead of their modest, picket-fenced home in suburban Nevada. Recently, she’s been, strangely, pleasant.  
“Anthony! Are you ready to go? The coach is almost here.” She yells, her scarf wrapped around her neck and her sunglasses obscuring her eyes. He rushes from the bathroom, looking vacant as he drags his suitcase behind him.  
“Yes, mother.”

The Hotel Cortez looms over them, the night enveloping them in blackness so all that is visible is the flickering neon and the light from within. She wobbles inside, her son trailing behind her, with their suitcases. The journey has worn her down. The reception bell dings as she signs her name on the register.  
“We booked a room under Dauphin.” Her wrinkled lips are pursed in a stern line.  
“Oh, yes, miss.” The receptionist turns and grasps a key from behind him. “Here is your key, miss.”

The room is dark and old and musty.  
“Anthony, I want to talk with you.” His mother sighs as she makes some tea for the two of them.  
“Yeah?” His bridge piercing crooks up at an angle as he cocks a brow. “What could we possibly have to talk about?” He asks, his seemingly never-ending legs propped up on the coffee table. “There’s a reason we’re here. You never like being seen with me. Why are we here?” He asks as she hands him a cup of boiling tea. He takes a sip. It tastes bitter. His mother always was useless as a cook.  
“I want to ask you a single question.” She cannot make eye contact. “Why?” She asks, simply, sharply.  
“Why what?”  
“Why do you do this to me?” She shrieks, making the young man jump in his seat. “You are a disappointment to my family name. You ruined my marriage, my body, my face. You took everything from me when you tore your way out of me.” She settles herself, sipping her tea, slowly. The young man drains his cup.  
“I do what I want. With my body, with my actions. None of that would affect you if you just...supported me.” He rises from his seat, staring at her with rage. “I live life by my rules and my rules, mother, don’t include your...closed-minded... Nhh...” He falls to his knees, vision going blurry. He watches his mother put her hands together and murmur a prayer.  
“Forgive me, Lord...” She whispers as she picks up a pillow from the bed. He reaches for his Swiss army knife, the one he found in his father’s cupboard, from the war, covered in rust and dust but it still works like a dream. She approaches, pillow ready to smother his beautiful, pierced face, his knife hidden from her view. She leans down and presses the pillow against his face. “... You should’ve been the one to die.” In his panic of asphyxiation and drug-induced stupor, he lashes out, the knife driving between her ribs and making her release her grip on the pillow over his face. She falls back, screaming as her dress turns black cherry red. He pounces, his limbs tangling in hers but his knife solves those issues, clawing at her arms as he gets a good aim on her torso. Silently, save for his heavy breaths, he stabs her in the chest, tearing flesh and breaking bone as blood sprays over his hands and face. As intense is love, hate is only drawn from our losses. In the nineteen years he has been alive, this woman — this witch — has torn everything from him. His stabs continue, even when her hands stop clutching and her arms fall. The last thing she sees as her death looms is his large, blue eyes sparkling, like stars in the night sky of her demise.

The smell of tobacco permeates the room, ghosting around the young boy like a fog. The shackles are gone. He is free. Free to be himself. Free to live his life. Free to just...be.  
“Well done, my dear boy!” The voice startles him and he spins around, the motion making him dizzy and the back of his skull ache.  
“Wh-What? Who... Who are you?! What do you want?! This isn’t what this looks like!” He yells, dropping the knife as blood drips from his shaking hands. His short, dark hair is dripping with sweat. “N-Nevermind! I have... Have to run... Have to leave...” He pants out and the man seems confused. The young man scrambled for the knife and points it at the sharply dressed man before him. “You... You tell a soul and I’ll...I’ll... I’ll tear your guts out of your mouth.” He mumbles as he rushes from the room and runs for the elevator.

Silence. People didn’t see Anthony Dauphin for five years. His killings became the subject of campfire stories and unbelievable horror. He became the ‘Chameleon Killer’, a convenient boogeyman to pin any unexplained deaths on. A hardened criminal only heard in soft whispers and seen in fleeting shadows.

1979 crawls round and a face appears outside the hotel, in broad daylight. A wide brimmed hat, sunglasses, an oversized trench coat, long, black dress pants and short, black boots. Reception is as calm as always. He doesn’t remove his glasses.  
“I have a reservation. Under AD.” The man speaks and the receptionist reaches for the key.  
“Of course, sir.” He hands the key over to his outstretched hand, cloaked in black leather.  
“My thanks.” 64. What a magical number. One can only imagine the surprise to be had in the next ten minutes.


	2. A Welcome Reunion

I slide the key into the guilded lock and turn the handle, the smooth jazz calming me, the slight scratch of the record player making me feel warm. The rug is clean — emmaculate, actually — as I walk in and place my bag on the floor, next to the bed. As I fall, on my back, on the bed, the musky scent of smoke envelopes me, once again, but, this time, I welcome it. He looms above me, hazy in a cloud of thick, grey smoke.  
“My guardian angel...” I sigh, easing off my sunglasses and just gazing up at him, illuminated in the low light of the lamps.  
“My dear boy. I’ve waited so long to, finally, talk with you.” He grins and a shiver worms it’s way down my spine. “Anthony Dauphin; the Chameleon Killer. I want to teach you. I want to teach you how to kill. How to fully enjoy the experience.”

His sharp suit is freshly pressed, his hands reaching for my own. He helps me up, his fingertips pressing along my torso.  
“My darling boy. These are the places you stabbed your poor, poor mother.” I remember, though coldly separate from the event. He whispers against my ear, his fingers gracing my trench coat before he drops it to the floor. Beneath my coat, I wear a plain white button-up and suit pants. His softness is surprising and I go to wrap my arms around him but he strikes me. I recoil in shock. “It was sloppy.” He states, rage consuming his voice as I look up at his dark, dark eyes but the rage comes and, then, dissolves as quick as it came. He tugs me to him, again, our lips only centimetres apart.  
“My angel...”  
“Or devil, my dear boy.” He breathes and I can smell the smoke on his tongue, the scent that brings me back to that fateful night where I first saw him. “Call me James. James Patrick March.” My breath is caught in my lungs. He pulls at the collar of my shirt, his grasp making my heart skip a beat as his black eyes stare me down. “You are perfection, my dear boy. So soft and tender and innocent.” He casts his hands across my cheeks, a thumb resting on my left lip piercing. “I was so tempted to kill you myself but when you were knelt there, drenched in blood, shaking in shock, I wanted nothing more than to kiss you and bite every inch of your lovely flesh.” He draws even closer, his lips by my ear as he whispers. “I shall teach you later but first...I must...act upon my own desires.” His breath is hot on my ear as he draws back so I can stare into him. Darkness and falling further into the black abyss.

I stand there, in his arms, so close to the man who has haunted my dreams for the past five, torturous years. All the blackness of my life is pulled into fabulous pyrotechnicolour and it drives me insane.  
“James...” I sigh as he pulls me closer and closer, the dim lamplight only bringing it all into perspective. His silk scarf brushes against my bare throat and I gasp at the subtle touch.  
“My darling Anthony...” He breathes as he leans in, his lips pressing warm against my own. It lights a fire within me and I grapple at his back, pulling him close as he begins to groan into my mouth, sweet promises of more to come as he breathes heavy and kisses me. He reveals a flick knife from his coat, bringing it to my throat and I sigh. “Look death in the eye, Anthony, and know it’s sweet embrace.” James’s voice is music to my ears as he presses the blade to my throat. A drop of blood runs down my neck as he breaks the skin, the appearance of it only setting him alight. He groans as he laps it up, my breath drawing heavier as he bites and suckles at my throat, his knife flicking off the buttons of my shirt, revealing the pale marble of my chest. He drops the knife to the bed. His cold hands meet my warm skin and I flinch, the sensation racing up my spine and making me moan. One hand descends further, cupping at my clothed cock as he licks his way into my mouth, again, my blood on his tongue.

Lights out. The only light is the blue light of the moon that filters through the open blinds and casts black bars across the sheets. His slicked hair shines in the light as he pushes me to the bed. He sheds his shirt and his scarf, revealing a large gash across his throat and I gasp.  
“James, my...”  
“Don’t worry, my dear.” He murmurs as he straddles my thighs. “Go on; feel it.” My fingers touch the bloodied flesh of his slit throat and he breathes in, deep. I feel the air rushing past my fingertips and I know, I understand. “I am already dead, my dear Anthony.” He breathes as he unbuckles my pants and shoves my briefs down. I do the same with him, making him bare to my gaze. He is gorgeous. Pale and slender and, oh, so beautiful. Our mouths meet in unholy matrimony and I am entranced by his mere presence. He drags me to the head of the bed, where he sits and I straddle him. I seat myself in his lap, spearing myself on him and those five years rush up to meet me, like the tide tossing me over in the ocean. His kisses are like flames that burn at my skin, his touch like silk.

“Kill me, James. Please, kill me. Kill me so I may join you.” I beg, through the tears that flood my eyes. He stops, his vest sticking to his clammy skin. I lose the fullness in my body and I moan at the loss.  
“My dear, why would I—” I draw close, our foreheads touching as I breathe, heavy.  
“I think about you every night, James. The curve of your jaw, the pillar of your throat, the bow of your lips. I’ve had five years to think this through and I... I l—” His hand clamps over my mouth.  
“Don’t.” He warns, sharply, drawing his hands away as he whips his hands across his eyes. “Don’t say it, Anthony...”  
“Whoever loved that loved not at first sight.” I whisper and he sighs, shakily.  
“Don’t. Lest you turn to dust and ash.” He breathes, tearing his body from my own, standing, now half naked and cold, from the bed.  
“But James. I can tell. I don’t love you for your money, for your palace, your body, your face.” I round him and cup his cheeks. “I love you for you. All of you. I want all of you, James. I want you to keep me. You’re the only thing I have in this world. Don’t abandon me.” His eyes flutter shut at my soft touch.  
“I... I couldn’t, Anthony.” He breathes, shuddering. “I have been following you, watching you. You truly are a beauty. You never strayed far from my gaze, hiding just under the noses of the police, slipping through the cracks. I’ve had five years to...” He opens his black eyes and, in the moonlight, I fall all over again.  
“Yes...?” I prompt and he shakes his head.  
“I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. I’m a married man. She may despise me but it feels wrong to—” I enclose his final words with a kiss.  
“I love you, James.” I sigh when we part and his hand grips at my throat, shoving me into the mattress.  
“... And I love you.” It is...genuine and he is mine.

We fall to the bed in a tangle of limbs. I lick along the gash in his throat and he groans, hotly, against my hair. My hand snakes up his vest, tearing it from his body. His figure is fit and it kills me to see him so entranced. I just study him for a glorious moment, watching his pale visage writhe between the bars of blue light that glow across the sheets. His fingers curl in my hair and he licks at my lips, pulling on my piercings as he devours my lips. Every sensation is like the fires of Hell licking at my heels as I reach out to touch those pearly gates. I prop him up on his knees and lay my chest against his back, entering him with a rough thrust and a primal sound. He gasps as I bring my arm around his neck. The scent of blood infects the air like a virus and he squeezes his eyes shut as I curl my hands in his hair. His breath is heavy and hot and I can feel the bedframe creaking under us. His insides are syrupy soft and so, so warm.

I get tired of not seeing his gorgeous face so I push him onto his back and take him that way. His hair is askew and the apples of his cheeks are painted with a deep blush. I enter him, again, slower this time, savouring the sweet ‘oh’ sound he makes as I ease myself in. His voice is low and soft and needy.  
“Anthony, yes, never let me go...” He sighs against my lips as I wrap my hand around his erection. “Take my soul, my darling boy. Pick up the pieces and put me back together.” He groans as I bury my head in the crook of his neck and he bends his legs around my hips.  
“I can’t hold...back, James...” I pant into his ear and he chuckles, breathlessly, his sweat stinging at my tongue as I swipe it across his throat.  
“Complete me, darling. Make me feel alive, again...” I fill him to the brim and he reaches his own climax, shuddering and leaving long scars down my back. “Anthony, make me your Cleopatra...” He sighs against my ear as I pull out, kissing him one last time.  
“... I love you, James.” I groan as I fall, limp, atop him.  
“And I love you, my darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> ngl i just wanted james to fall in love with an oc who was basically me
> 
> you just read a self-insert pr much
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
